Con Me If You Can
by Believe4Ever
Summary: "The FBI and Scotland Yard have tried for years to catch me, Mr. Holmes." His voice was coated in charisma, but it still had that cold edge to it. "What makes you think you can?" Sherlock answered in an equally cold voice, "I'm not them." (Title and general idea credit goes to jaeh-is-awesome on Deviant Art. Rated T to be safe.)
1. Chapter 1

**So I saw this picture on Deviant Art of a Sherlock/White Collar crossover where Sherlock would be hired on the Neal Caffrey case. I loved the picture and my own story of it started forming in my head. I decided to start writing it and share it on here. You all should really check out the picture—not my credit, all credit for the picture, title, and dialogue for the summary, and forming of the idea goes to jaeh-is-awesome on Deviant Art.**

**Anyhow, please read, enjoy, and review to let me know what you think of it so far. This is an Alternate Universe fiction, since this would in no way happen in the show. Also, there will be minimal if any mentions of Kate in this story. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Working late again, boss?"

Peter Burke looked up to see his friend and subordinate Diana giving him a tiny smile. She was leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed. He glanced at the clock to see that it was a quarter to midnight. Another late night, all right.

"Seems so," he answered, looking back down at his file. There was that fuzzy shot of his target staring back at him; mocking him. Neal Caffrey. The suave conman with his wavy brown hair and clean shaven face, the bright blue eyes, and that charming smile that could pierce even the coldest of women's hearts. Peter had been trying to capture this fox of a man for over two years, now. There had been many close encounters, and yet he always seemed to slip through the FBI's fingers.

"They had brought in the Scotland Yard, you know," she advised, walking in and taking a seat across from his desk. "You don't have to work this hard."

"The Yard has been on this case for six months," Peter sighed, closing the file. "They've barely made a dent in this case, let alone helped us in any significant way."

"Aren't they sending in that new consultant of theirs?"

"What would a consultant do to help us?"

"I don't know . . ." She smiled. "It's said that this guy is really good. Solved several seemingly impossible cases for the Yard."

Peter gave a mocking grin and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. Caffrey is better than most of the agents in the Bureau. What good can a consultant do?" He opened the file up once more and started shifting through more papers.

Diana reached over and closed the file, taking it away from him. They held each others' gaze for a moment. "Go home, Peter. Get some sleep. Just be here tomorrow morning to meet the consultant." She stood and started to leave the office, taking the file with her.

Peter watched her go and called, "What was this guy's name, again?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

()()()

"Don't say anything to get us fired," John Watson advised his friend as they strolled into the FBI office. Several people were walking around, getting different files or papers. Some people were on the computers, others socializing or going over strategies to take down different criminals.

"It's not like I try to, John," Sherlock Holmes answered. He adjusted his scarf around his neck and put his hands back into the deep pockets of his trench coat. "And this case is hardly something that will take me long enough for me to say something to get us fired."

"Still, try your best to keep your mouth shut and not insult the people we will be working with."

The twosome strolled into one certain office with walls made of glass. A man and woman, both dressed in suits, were looking over a file together. The woman had darker skin than the man, with soft black hair and full brown eyes, as well as a black suit with a blue blouse. The man had dark hair that was starting to thin from stress. He was wearing a tan suit and had wrinkles on his face that were starting to set in, also probably from the stress of work.

The man glanced up and straightened. "Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes and John Watson." He made his way over to them and held out his hand towards Sherlock. "I am Peter Burke, the agent in charge of this manhunt."

"I don't do formalities," Sherlock said bluntly, ignoring the man's hand. Peter faltered and his hand dropped a little. Instead, John Watson took the hand, giving it a firm shake.

"Don't mind him, he's just eager to get started," the ex-medic explained. "I'm John, this is Sherlock. It's nice to meet you, Agent Burke."

The agent smiled. "No, no. We'll be working together. You can call me Peter."

"I'm Diana," the woman interjected, setting down the file. "It's nice to meet the both of you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can we stop all this senseless chit-chat and proceed with the true matter at hand?"

Peter gave him a hard stare for a moment. "You know, you remind me of Caffrey, just without the package charm he comes with."

The detective's eyebrows rose. "Oh? So you've met the man at large?"

"Once. At the time I didn't know he was the man that we were going after. As a joke, he gave me a lollipop. I've kept it since. Now I'm determined to catch this man, and you're going to help me do so."

The two held each others' gaze for a minute longer before Sherlock broke the stare and looked at the file. "Is this all the information you have on him?"

Peter turned toward the file and Diana handed it to him. "That's right. Little is known about this guy. He uses an assortment of aliases so 'Neal Caffrey' isn't well known around the streets. His aliases are, but we can't pinpoint any true information about him since he uses fake identities." He withdrew the fuzzed picture of the conman and handed it over to Sherlock. "This was the last photograph taken of Caffrey."

Sherlock took the picture and both he and John looked at it.

"I can see how he slips away from so many people," John mumbled. "Uses charm, does he?" Peter nodded.

"How recent was this photograph taken?" Sherlock questioned.

Peter thought back. "Probably no more than a month ago. It is known that he is still in the northern states, but we don't know if he's fled New York yet—"

"He's still in New York."

The two agents exchanged a glance. "How would you know that?"

Sherlock turned the picture around to show them. "The reason this photograph is fuzzy is because it was not originally just of Neal Caffrey. Some bystander—tourist, no doubt—had taken the picture and realized that they had caught a criminal on camera. They sent it in and you had the section with your criminal blown up and is now pixilated, is it not? It can be clearly shown that he is trying to blend into the New York natives by dressing down, but his obvious charm and charisma shows him off anyhow. He seems in no hurry, even though he surely must have known of the manhunt for him. That means that he has many strategies to avoid the FBI's gaze and stay in the shadows. It's apparent he loves this city and wants to stay in it for as long as possible. If you have yet to make a big breakthrough in finding him, he's still in the city, and he's dressing as a 'normal' New York resident."

The agents were staring with slightly impressed expressions.

"That was good," Peter admitted. "But if you're this good, then tell us: where is he now?"

Sherlock looked away and started searching on his Smartphone. "I can't answer that now." He scrolled through a few links on the internet. "But I should have it solved by the end of the week."

()()()

"I need a suit, Mozzie!" Neal called as he paced around his small apartment. His sweatpants were baggy around his legs and his tank top was draped over his well toned torso. His wavy brown hair was ruffled as though he just woke up from sleeping in his bed and had not bothered to comb the locks down.

"You don't need a suit," his friend, Mozzie, argued. Mozzie was a shorter, blunt man who was constantly paranoid about the world. He wasn't nearly as bad as some of the alien worshippers around the city, but he did believe in a number of conspiracies—he'd even started some. The man was bald and wore thick glasses. Currently he was lying on Neal's ripped up couch and sipping some cheap wine they had bought.

"Yes, I do, Mozz! I've been dressing like this for several months and I'm sick of it. I'm also sick of this apartment! I want to move into something better; something of the upper class."

"We're trying to stay on the down low. We've been saving up money from your forgeries and it's slowly adding up. But if a couple of guys suddenly moved from a rundown shabby apartment space to the penthouse in the center of Manhattan, a lot of attention would be brought to us and the Suits would immediately find us."

"And that's why I can't get a suit?"

"What I'm trying to say is that if you wear a suit, you'll attract attention to yourself and more pictures will be captured of you."

"You're too suspicious, Mozz. I look strange like this. Look at my face. This face doesn't belong on a body with—with sweatpants!"

The bald man rolled his eyes. "Neal, there are a lot of people in the world with pretty faces. That doesn't mean that they earn enough money to buy suits and live in the high life. Just give me a couple more weeks and I promise we'll move out of New York and to somewhere safer where the FBI wouldn't suspect."

"It better be somewhere that isn't run down."

"I was deciding between Los Angeles and Sacramento."

"Go with L.A." Neal finally sat down and put his feet up on the wobbly coffee table. "Can't we move somewhere more beautiful, though? Like Italy or France?"

"It will take longer to pay for the international tickets."

Neal sighed. "Fine." He lay back against the ripped up cushion. "Why don't these FBI guys just leave me alone?"

Mozzie took another sip of his wine. "First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win."

"You're quoting Gandhi now?"

"H.P. Lovecraft certainly didn't have anything for this situation."

* * *

**Thank you for writing! Please review and let me know your thoughts of how it is going so far. I tried to keep the characters' personality close as they are in the shows. Let me know of anything that I can improve on, and what you liked so far, etc. Thank you!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to those who have read! I hope you enjoy the next chapter.**

* * *

"That Sherlock Holmes is a bit of a brat, don't you think?" Peter whispered to Diana as they watched Sherlock go through Neal's file once more in Peter's office. They were standing on the ground floor by Jones' desk. It was the day after Sherlock and John got into New York, and Sherlock had worked nonstop just gathering every bit of information on Caffrey. Peter took a sip of the bitter coffee in his mug.

"He is a prat," John agreed behind them. Peter nearly took a spit take at the sudden voice behind him. They turned.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I-I didn't notice you there," Peter stuttered. "Um, about Mr. Holmes—"

"I'm not offended, if that's what you're worried about." John smiled. "I know that he's a problem. Believe me, I know. I would be more worried if you hadn't noticed already."

Peter gave a sigh of relief, afraid he had offended the new consultants already.

Sherlock came out of the office and toward them, the usual solemn look on his face. "Are you at all aware of the atrocious amount of skeletons that are on blatant display out of every one of your agents' closets?"

"Excuse me?" Diana said with her usual click of voice.

"I have found that there are four affairs going on with some of your agents—one married couple are both cheating on each other. I've also found that there have been many evidence cover-ups in order to allow a handful of criminals to walk as well as there being agents playing dirty in order to get to the top." He sat down and started searching on his phone. "I've also noted that, unlike your military, you don't care about your agents' sexual orientation."

Both Peter and Diana were staring at Sherlock with shocked faces. "Yeah, we call that 'Don't Ask, Don't Care'," Peter muttered. "Now what was this about evidence cover-ups?"

"Playing dirty?" Diana added.

"How the hell did you even figure that out? Weren't you supposed to be investigating Caffrey?"

"He is," John insisted. "He's just an extremely talented observer and can determine a person's past due to their appearance and actions."

The two agents didn't look so convinced.

"Look," Peter sighed, "have you figured out anything about Caffrey yet?"

Sherlock smiled icily. "In fact I have."

"Great! I'd love to hear it."

"Not yet."

Peter gave him a look of obvious growing agitation. "Why not?"

"I still have to investigate the matter."

"Excuse me? Mr. Holmes, we're the people that investigate. You're a consultant that figures out information and reports it to us."

"In my line of work, I do investigate these matters." Sherlock stood and started heading for the exit. "John!"

"Coming," the doctor sighed. He gave the two apologetic looks. "I'm sure you could tail us, right?" With that, John followed his friend out of the offices.

Peter gave a sigh and sat down, rubbing his forehead. "This is why I look so old . . ."

Diana smiled. "Come on, Boss. We have to make sure that they don't get into too much trouble."

()()()

"So what did you find out?" John asked as the two of them exited the FBI building.

"A few key items in finding Caffrey's whereabouts."

"Like what?"

"Like he has class. He would try to keep on the low side, yet would want to have at least a little bit of the high life. He might occasionally buy an expensive bottle of wine, or he would get a suit."

"So that's helping you understand where he's been?"

"Precisely."

"Where is he, then?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

The ex-medic rolled his eyes as his phone buzzed. He looked at the text message. "Lestrade just got into New York. They're even sending the Scotland Yard themselves over here."

"Lestrade alone won't help."

"He brought Donovan and Anderson."

Sherlock gave a groan and rolled his eyes. "They _definitely _won't help!"

"They could."

"No, John, they couldn't. Anderson is utterly useless except perhaps with the very slight intelligence that comes with his degree in forensic sciences. However there is no body to inspect so he is utterly useless. Donovan can't do anything either since she is too caught up in spending nights at Anderson's to focus on work."

"You can't give them a single chance?"

"I would never risk precious clues to their stupidity."

"Well where do you suggest we start looking?"

A small grin crept onto the detective's lips. "Le Bourn Boutique."

()()()

"What's this surprise you wanted to show me?" Mozzie called from the couch, flipping through the newspaper. All of it was lies, of course. Mozzie had enough connections to understand that. But Neal had left him sitting on the couch for fifteen minutes and he'd grown bored.

Neal walked out from his room into full view. "Ta-da!" He was decked out in a brand new navy-blue suit, his hair newly groomed and his chin shaved. Even his shoes shone with a glint of spit shine.

Mozzie's jaw dropped and anger started to bubble in the short man's body. "Neal! What did I tell you just a _few_ days ago?!"

"That I need a suit?"

"That you needed to stay _inconspicuous!_"

Neal was taken aback by his friend's outburst. "Moz, come on. Look at me. I'm fine."

"You stand out! Your pretty-boy face and now the suit! You look like some supermodel who's trying to go to a business meeting! The Suits have eyes everywhere. Ever hear the term 'Big Brother'?!"

"Mozzie, calm down. Everything is perfectly fine, all right? Just because I get a suit doesn't mean that I'm going to be found out."

"Yes? Well 'Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance.'"

"You're quoting on this now?" Neal sighed. "I don't know who said that. What, _Socrates?_" The sarcasm in his voice was notable.

Mozzie shook his head. "Fortune cookie I found in China Town. The Chinese are very wise people and should be listened to. You're completely ignorant, Neal! You don't understand the severity of what you have done! This could get both of us caught."

"Moz." The conman planted his hands firmly on his friend's shoulders. "I'll be careful and we'll be _fine. _I'll guarantee you that."

Eventually the bald man gave in. "Fine. Where did you get the suit, anyhow?"

Neal grinned, his shining white teeth flashing. "That new store that opened down the street. Le Bourn Boutique."

* * *

**Please review with your opinions!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm SO sorry that I took forever to get this posted. I had writers block on this story for the longest time. Anyhow, I hope the wait was worth it.**

* * *

"They've gone into a boutique," Peter muttered, watching as Sherlock and John walked into Le Bourn Boutique. "Why are they in a boutique? They want to buy a dress?"

"Give them a chance, Boss," Diana chuckled. "This is the kind of place Caffrey would go to, isn't it?"

"I suppose. But Caffrey is trying to stay out of sight. Why would he make an expensive purchase at a place like this?"

"Because it's what we wouldn't expect. This place is new and probably doesn't have good records. Grand openings don't have extremely expensive price tags. There are a lot of reasons."

Peter laughed. "Fine. But they had better get a good lead out of this."

()()()

The British duo entered the boutique. The boutique was large and brightly lit with several mannequins placed throughout the store. There were some mannequins showing off bright dresses or wearing glittering jewelry. Others were wearing suits and had an assortment of horrifying ties.

"This is a bother," Sherlock muttered as he looked around, noting the different people looking around—paling at the price tags so they must be middle-class workers who thought they could afford the new boutique—and overly cheerful staff.

"What is?"

"Having to talk to these people just to find out where Neal Caffrey is staying. If I had my homeless network here then I wouldn't have to go through such bothersome tasks."

"It makes you a better consulting detective."

"I'm already the best consulting detective because I'm the _only _one—"

"Hello and welcome to Le Bourn Boutique!" one of the saleswomen greeted as she approached them. Her lips were spread out into a wide smile, showing pearly white teeth. Her uniform, a dark blue suit with a white handkerchief wrapped around her neck, similar to how a sailor's suit is, was perfectly ironed. "How may I help you today?"

"I need to look at your customer's purchasing records."

"E . . . Excuse me?" She seemed a little phased, not only by the blunt demand, but also by his accent.

"Police." He flashed a badge. "We're investigating someone that purchased something from this shop. We must see the records _now._"

"Oh, um . . . of course, come with me."

She led them to the computer by the register. John murmured quietly, "Lestrade's badge?"

"Of course," Sherlock muttered in reply.

The saleswoman pulled up the minimal purchase files that were stored in the hard drive. "We just opened, so we haven't had many sales . . ."

"Do you remember this man?" John pulled out the picture of Neal and showed it to her. Realization sprang across her face.

"Oh yeah, he was in here a couple days ago. I remember him because he was very good-looking . . . Let's see, I remember what he bought . . ." She brought up the purchase—semi-expensive, snazzy suit and hat—made by a man named Alexander McKesson.

"He made a new alias," Sherlock muttered. John made note of the purchase information. The detective took out his phone and texted Lestrade.

_Alexander McKesson._

"You've been a lot of help," John assured the saleswoman. "Thank you very much."

The two left the shop and paused by the street as Sherlock searched on his phone.

"Well, what now?" John asked, noticing the white van parked a few feet away with tinted windows. He assumed it was Peter and Diana keeping watch over them.

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he checked the text message. "I have an address." He began to walk down the street.

The ex-medic followed hurriedly. "What? How?"

"Lestrade. He managed to find out the address that _Alexander McKesson _was staying at. I tipped off one of my contacts and they managed to hack into the computer at that residence and find out that Mr. McKesson was trying to sell a painting—most likely a forgery—on the black market. My contact put in such a large sum for the piece that he couldn't possibly refuse to meet, even if it was such short notice."

"Are you positive that he would meet up?"

"No. But it's the closest lead we have."

"What if he sends someone else to make the exchange?"

"He'll make the exchange. My contact told him a list of parameters. One of them being that it should be the one to give the painting."

Sherlock turned down an alley. As soon as they were out of sight from the street, he turned around to face John. "They're following us," he murmured.

"What?"

"The FBI. They are tailing us. You told them to, didn't you? You know I don't like police interference!"

"Sherlock, we don't know what we're up against here."

"I want them gone."

"I can't just tell them to leave!"

"Then you have to distract them."

"What?"

"You need to distract them," Sherlock said once again, more sternly.

"_How?_" John growled. Sherlock took out his gun and pointed it into the air, firing off two rounds. John flinched and covered his ears.

"Get down."

"What?"

"Get _down._" The detective shoved John onto the ground. "Cower and make up a story. Just keep them busy."

Sherlock then turned and sprinted down the alley, taking a right turn out of sight. Just a couple seconds later Peter and Diana ran in. "What was that?" Peter barked, putting up his gun and looking around. Diana knelt down next to John.

"What happened?" she asked in a calm voice.

"Er, well . . ." John gulped, trying frantically to think up a story. "Sherlock and I had been walking down here and, um . . . There was this man, here. He had tried to . . . rob . . . yes, rob us. He tried to mug us. Pulled a gun on us. He was threatening us and pointing his gun about, specifically at me, when Sherlock tackled him. The gun went off and I went down to avoid getting hit. Sherlock didn't get hit, lucky. And, um . . . the man ended up getting away, but . . . Sherlock went after him, because er . . . He had stolen Sherlock's phone."

Diana's eyebrows rose with suspicion but Peter was already questioning, "Which way did they go?"

"Um . . . Down the alley and they took a left."

Peter nodded. "Come on, Diana!" He started down the alley with John's directions.

"Um . . . I'm going to help Mr. Watson back to the office, Boss."

Peter paused for a moment, looking back over his shoulder. "All right, I'll call you when I catch him." He then proceeded back down the alley, taking a left.

Diana turned back to John, looking him in the eye. "Now tell me. Where did Sherlock _really _go?"

()()()

"This offer is _spectacular!_" Neal cried excitedly to Mozzie as he allowed his bald friend to read it over on the computer. "We've been dying to get this forgery off our hands and this art collector is so eager to add it to his collection that he's giving that much money!"

"It's too good to be true," Mozzie muttered, turning away from the computer to face his suave friend. "All of a sudden some guy wants to buy this painting at such a high price, sets up a meeting in a supposedly completely empty area, _and _he wants you to meet him _in person? _Suspicious."

"Calm down, Mozzie."

"I won't even have time to scope out the place! It could be crawling with police or Suits."

"It'll be fine, I promise!"

"You can't promise that."

"Would it make you feel better if you came along?"

"Yes."

"Except that he insisted that if anyone was there with me he would withdraw his proposal."

"I could stay out of sight."

"I guess . . ."

"Come on, Neal. This is me you're talking to. You know that I won't let anything happen to me."

Neal laughed. "Well, that's true. Fine, I guess you can come."

"One more thing . . ." Mozzie went over to the cabinet he always kept under lock and key. Neal had never even seen what was inside of it. The conman leaned closer curiously as Mozzie opened it up. He withdrew something silver and held it toward Neal.

Neal backed away, hands held up. "No. I'm not handling any guns, Moz."

"It's just in case!"

"I don't care! I don't like knowing I have the . . . ability to . . ."

"I doubt you'll need it. But it will make me feel safer if you had it, Neal. Please."

Caffrey gulped. He really hated to handle guns—he knew how to use them, that's for sure, but he hated that he knew that he was holding something that could take a person's life. Even so, he knew Mozzie didn't have a point. He didn't know who was trying to meet with him. For all he knew it could be an old enemy. If nothing else, he could just use the gun to scare the buyer if they made a sudden move. He slowly took the gun from Mozzie, feeling the cold weight in his hand.

"I don't like this," he murmured.

"I know," Mozzie admitted. "But think of it this way: 'Everyone smiles with that invisible gun to their head.' What difference is a real one?"

Neal only gave a sigh. "I've never enjoyed Palahniuk."

* * *

**I hope this chapter was enjoyable. What will happen when Neal and Sherlock finally meet?! Well, I know, but I hope you all are eager to find out. Please review with your thoughts!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Please read, enjoy, and review!**

* * *

Sherlock looked up at the warehouse before him. He had followed his contact's directions and they had led him to this warehouse just over a mile away from the boutique. He assumed it was abandoned by the condition of the walls—peeling paint, graffiti, one window pane broken. That was good. The last thing he needed was someone interfering in this confrontation.

"John had better keep them busy," Sherlock muttered as he entered the warehouse. The lights were out and the only light that came into the warehouse was the light pouring in from the windows. Unfortunately most of the windows were tinted so light came in beams, offering very little visibility.

"I see you came," echoed a voice in the shadows. Sherlock shifted his weight to his other foot, looking to where he heard the voice.

"As did you. Although, I can't be sure if it's _really _you."

"It's me." There was a slight pause. "British, I see."

"Yes."

"I have the painting. You don't really strike me as the type of person to want to buy it, though."

"I'm just someone come to pick up the package."

"Money?"

"In my pocket."

"From the amount you proposed I was expecting a briefcase or something."

"They're large bills."

Another pause. It was obvious that if this was Caffrey, he was extremely cautious.

"Step into the light," Sherlock offered.

"Show me the cash first."

"Mr. McKesson, you owe me that at the least. You're in the shadows, I don't know if you even have the painting, and you could be hiding some associates in that dark. Now step into the light so I can at least see what you look like. Then I will show you my end of the deal."

There was a slight sigh and finally a man stepped into the light. He had swept brown hair covered by a fedora. His suit was a deep navy blue with a sensible tie. He had the painting rolled up in his hands. A small smile twitched on Sherlock's lips.

"Cash?" Neal murmured, nodding to him.

"Of course . . ." Sherlock reached into his coat, but brought out something that wasn't money.

His gun.

Neal took a half step back, eyes wide. "Hey, what are you—"

"Just come quietly, Mr. Caffrey."

"What? No, I'm—"

"Your face is proof enough. Don't make me have to use this weapon."

"You're with the FBI?"

"In a sense, though I'd rather I wasn't associated with America's poor investigation system. Then again, Britain isn't much better."

Neal bit his lip in a moment's hesitation before bringing out his own gun, pointing it at Sherlock. "I'm not one to come quietly."

"Obviously."

"Look, I don't want to use this. So just let me go and neither of us will get hurt."

"There's only one entrance, mind you. You're not going to be leaving this warehouse without first going through me."

Neal gulped, trying to quell his anxiety. "I don't really have to go through you, now do I? One bullet is all it takes." He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he pointed weapon at Sherlock. "Now what's your real name?"

"You don't need to know that."

"I think I do. If the Feds are onto me, I'd like to know which agent they sent."

"Why? So you can assassinate me later? No thank you. Just come with me, Mr. Caffrey."

"Do you honestly think that I'm just going to come quietly?!"

Sherlock's eyes quickly searched Caffrey's body, identifying the areas for vital arteries and organs. "No, I don't." He fired his gun and the bullet shot at Caffrey. In the heat of the moment Neal's own finger pulled on his gun's trigger. Twice.

Neal was expecting that Sherlock would shoot him, so he had stepped away. The bullet still hit him—no one was fast enough to dodge a bullet from that distance—but he was able to move just enough that the bullet punctured his shoulder rather than anything important.

"You son of a—" Neal's voice cut off when he looked up at Sherlock.

Or, rather, down.

Neal stared in horror at Sherlock as the detective lay on the floor, teeth gritted, one hand pressed against his stomach and the other curled around his coat over his chest. The conman's hands started quivering and the gun slipped from his hand onto the floor. The loud clatter felt a thousand times magnified in his ears, shattering the silence louder than the gunshot had.

_He's horrified, _Sherlock observed through his pain as he stared up at the criminal. _He never intended to use the gun. It's obvious that he was using it only as a scare tactic . . . I must have pushed him to using it . . ._

"I . . ." Neal choked on his own words. "I didn't . . ."

"Neal!" The conman turned toward Mozzie's voice, of who was still hidden in the darkness. Sherlock looked over as well but couldn't catch sight of him. "The police will be here soon!" The voice seemed to be inching around the edge of the room towards the door, keeping in the shadows. Sherlock tried to turn to see who it was but the pain in his abdomen was too much so he stayed positioned the way he was. "Come on!"

"We can't just leave him!" Neal's voice sounded desperate and he looked back at Sherlock with guilt glistening in his moist eyes.

"Like I said, _the police will be here soon! _Someone would've heard the gunshots so _come on! _He'll be fine with them!"

The conman didn't look so sure. He looked down at Sherlock. "I'm sorry."

His voice was so faint that Sherlock wasn't even sure if he'd said it. Neal gulped and ran towards the front door, not bothering to take the painting forgery or Mozzie's gun. Sherlock tried to turn, or reach out, or _say something _but he couldn't.

Minutes passed, but they felt like hours.

Neal and his friend were long gone and a sheet of sweat covered Sherlock's face. He had stayed curled up with his hands pressed against his wound. His hands alternated between his chest, which felt like it was on fire, and his stomach, which felt like it was being soaked in ice water. He kept trying to stop the bleeding, but even so there was a small pool of blood beginning to form on the floor.

_John . . ._ Sherlock thought drunkenly, feeling around for his phone. When he did manage to find it, the red liquid was coating the screen, making it hard to find the contacts. He managed to find it and just called John, rather than texting. He needed the distraction from the darkness starting to eat away at the edge of his vision.

"Sherlock!" John sounded relieved but worry was still underlying his voice. "Where are you?"

Sherlock gave him the address in a ragged voice. "Hurry, John . . ."

It sounded like he was relaying the address to someone before saying into the phone, "What happened? Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

"Shot . . ."

"You were _shot?_" There was some faint cussing in the background. John was definitely with someone. "By who? This Caffrey fellow?"

Sherlock swallowed, trying to focus. "Yes."

"Sherlock, we're going to be there in three minutes, okay? Is he still there?"

"Gone."

"Gone as in _gone _or gone?"

"He _left _John . . . not dead . . ."

"Okay, okay . . . I guess that's not completely bad . . . Keep talking, Sherlock. Where were you shot?"

"Stomach . . . chest . . ."

"You were shot twice?!"

"Yes, John! . . . Obviously . . ."

He could hear John's worried voice as he told whoever he was with. "Okay, Sherlock, tell me exactly where the wounds are."

"Middle of chest . . . slightly to left . . . mid-stomach . . . above belly-button . . ."

"You're going to be all right, I promise."

"Yes . . . yes . . ." Sherlock's mind was starting to cloud. Thoughts were still going through his head but at slower intervals.

Neal Caffrey was a conman and an expert at creating forgeries. He didn't like killing. He was unsteady with a gun. Overall ability with accuracy in shooting is indeterminable because he shot in instinct and surprise. This was an accident. He had been horrified. He is gone. Sherlock was shot twice. He was dying.

Dying . . .

"Sherlock!" John's voice broke through the clouds. "Answer me!"

"John . . ." Sherlock definitely sounded drunk and on the verge of passing out. The pain seemed to grow to a magnifying intensity and become numb at the same time.

"Just keep _talking _Sherlock. We're going to be there in a minute, I promise .Just keep talking. Anything. What do you see? What do you _observe?_"

"Windows . . . floor . . . dark . . ."

John gulped worriedly. Normally when Sherlock was asked to deduce he would go into every detail but he was being very vague. Was the warehouse even dark, or was he starting to slip away?

"Keep talking."

Silence.

"Sherlock, _keep talking._"

Not even the slightest noise.

"Sherlock, answer."

No sound. At all.

_"Sherlock!"_

* * *

**This concludes this chapter! Please review with your thoughts and opinions on their confrontation and this cliffhanger I always leave you guys with!**


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